


the sentiment, the harder it falls

by minarchy



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minarchy/pseuds/minarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he had asked younger Sam, the Sam from before he ran away from Ellimere and his princely duties to rescue his friend from a minor tourist malfunction, what his safe place would ever be, that Sam would have said a workshop. Of this, there can be little doubt. But that Sam had only briefly encountered the horrors of Death, in the river with Hedge and the burns on his hands and thighs, and still found the capital - and more specifically, the palace where he had spent his childhood - to be a safe haven from all the darkness of the outer world and the place beyond Life. Such a certainty was no longer a luxury that this Sam, only a year older than that one, could cling to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sentiment, the harder it falls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/gifts).



     _It seems like you could, but_  
_you can’t go back and pull_  
_the roots and runners and replant._  
_It’s all too deep for that._  
  
_**— Kay Ryan, A Certain Kind of Eden**_

Before all the mess with the Destroyer - old identities lost, new identities uncovered - Sam always thought that, were he to ever build himself a hide-away, it would have been in the form of a workshop. Perhaps additions to his current workshop, still filled with half-finished projects of both leisure and responsibilities; or a private room off the side of his official workspace in the capital, a place he had been gifted by his parents once they had arrived back in Belisaere and it was obvious that Sameth, no longer Abhorsen-in-Waiting but the first Wallmaker in a thousand years, would require a much larger and better equipped workshop in order to fulfil his new duties.

These were still rather vague - he had learned, along with Ellimere from his father the spells and requirements to raise and repair the Charter Stones, a talent that came far easier to him than it had to Touchstone. Although this was no surprise to anyone, it didn't stop Ellimere from complaining, good-naturedly, that he had it easy compared to the rest of them. He had also looked into how he might assist in the repairing of the Wall, but this was a far more complicated and delicate task than even he had imagined, and he had yet to make any real progress in deciphering the Marks in the wall and how they bleed into the foundations to solidify its purpose. He had made a few more swords, as the old named swords were few and far between, but he wasn't secure enough in his new destiny to truly believe that anything he could make could yet be as potent and powerful as the swords made by the old Wallmakers, now all long lost to dust and memory.

Having no tutor made everything that much harder, but luckily there had been no real call for Wallmaker-levels of magic since the separation of the Destroyer - the most complicated thing he had made to fulfil a purpose since then had been Lirael's hand, which, whilst a feat of engineering that he was very pleased with, was not something that he would categorise alongside any of the vast works of engineering that the Wallmakers had done. It was far more like one of his more intricate mechanical toys, a lend from his school days taking apart the delicate machines of Ancelstierre to see how they went back together fused and imbued with Charter magic so that it could function as well as a real hand for the new Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Much of the toils following the defeat of the Destroyer had been Lirael's burden to bear, alongside his mother, as they strode abroad together - but more often apart - to put down the Dead and Free Magic beings that still clung to this side of the river. Honestly, and with no small level of guilt, Sam felt incredibly relieved about this.

("Sam," Lirael said, last time he had seen her, smiling at him briefly with dark eyes in exhaustion-bruised sockets, made even clearer by the sallow-pale of her skin. "How are you?"

All he could think of was how he was grateful that he was no longer burdened with the bells that Lirael still wore, only recently back from an excursion, and his tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth.

"Busy," he said. "But not as bad as you, obviously. How as it?"

Lirael wrinkled her face, rolled her shoulders back. "It's been worse. This was only a Shadow Hand causing more havoc that its due."

Sam looked at her, saw the lines already forming on her face, remembered how his mother seemed to age all of sudden, every time he came home from school. He tried to remember the last time that he had seen her really smile. "You should rest," he said, and Lirael made a face as if that say _that's the plan_. "I mean _real_ rest," he said. "Like a break. Go down to Abhorsen's House. The peaches should be in season about now."

There was a pause, in which Lirael looked back at Sam in much the way he had looked at her, searching. "Sometimes," she said, slowly and low, imparting a secret, "I feel Mogget - Yrael is there. Watching the House. Do you know - have you heard from him?"

"Mogget?" said Sam, surprised. "No. Not since the time we saw him fishing on one of the estuaries around the Southerling settlement."

Lirael's face did something complicated, like she was feeling guilty for not being able to - what? take care of Yrael, Mogget as was? Bind him again?

"I'm sure he's fine," he said. "Adjusting to life as a free cat."

Lirael laughed, and Sam felt better. "Enjoying all the fish and birds he can get his claws into," she said. 

Sam grinned. "Still more cat than anything," he said. "I guess it goes to show - you pretend long enough, you can convince yourself."

They both stopped laughing at that.

"My hand," Lirael said, holding it up and breaking the tension. "That's actually what I came to see you about.")

If he had asked younger Sam, the Sam from before he ran away from Ellimere and his princely duties to rescue his friend from a minor tourist malfunction, what his safe place would ever be, that Sam would have said a workshop. Of this, there can be little doubt. But that Sam had only briefly encountered the horrors of Death, in the river with Hedge and the burns on his hands and thighs, and still found the capital - and more specifically, the palace where he had spent his childhood - to be a safe haven from all the darkness of the outer world and the place beyond Life. Such a certainty was no longer a luxury that this Sam, only a year older than that one, could cling to.

Even despite all this, it had taken some time for him to come to terms with his own desire for his new refuge.

He had written of it to Nick, in one of his many letters written and few posted, in the thought that maybe, once it had been inked into parchment, the idea might leave him alone. But he found himself thinking of it more and more often, when he was drafting new spells to correct a minor flaw in Lirael's hand or tinkering with some other project or trying to convince whatever new person of self-importance saw fit to seek audience with the court to complain about the newly instated Southerling population. Most often, he thought of it when he awoke, sweating and gasping, in the dead of night, flinching at the groans of the castle and the pad of footsteps far away: a fishing hut, perched on one of the islands at the mouth of the Ratterlin, surrounded by deep and fast flowing water from the river and the sea, tidal and never still. There, he would be safe, he imagined. There, his mind would quiet, and he could see through the haze of unknowable responsibilty of being the last Wallmaker to - whatever there might be, besides that.

He imagined, rather romantically, he admitted even to himself, of a simple wooden erection of four walls, a roof and the chimney, with maybe an overhang or porch covering so that he could be outside but sheltered from poor weather. There were spells, partially formed on paper and far more fully conceived in his mind, of how to weather-proof the structure, so that he wouldn't have to double wall the interior to protect from winter and sea winds, of how he might spell a stone to ease the current to allow passage by vessel in the worst weather, or prevent any unwanted visitors from being able to land. This last part would require a long sojourn at Abhorsen's House, diving to examine the stones sunk into the riverbed near the jetty to allow the boats to arrive. There were even sketches amongst his journals of how he might fashion a scuba device, such as he had read of at school.

It was a fantasy that was palpable, and that made it even more wistful and even more terrifying. He dare not mention it to Ellimere, and couldn't bear the fact that his parents would be more than willing to let him go and find this piece of solace; which was why he was so grateful, and so angry, with Nick, who, whilst staying at the palace - ostensibly to learn Charter magic and perhaps how to control the Free Magic that ran through him as his blood did, but just as much so that an eye could be kept on him, in case he went barreling into any other misfortunes that could start an apocalypse - had taken the idea to just these people. Sam had missed the discussion, which had apparently taken place over dinner, as he had been completely absorbed with the test construction of Charter-powered and -spelled water pumps to irrigate the land that had been given to the Southerlings. The ensuing conversation between Sam and Nick, when Nick had sauntered down to his workshop and told him that the idea had his family's blessing, had not be cordial.

"Don't be daft, old man," Nick said, waving an arm as if to waft away Sam horrified reprimand. "It's obvious that you're gagging for this to become a reality. To me -" he added, hastily, when he saw the colour drain from Sam's face to leave two bright spots of - anger? humilation? - high in his cheeks. "Honestly, I'm pretty sure they saw right though me," he said, grinning at Sam, who blinked at him, nonplussed. "It's quite clear that I am secretly desperate to be reunited with your darling aunt."

Despite the offhand and obvious jocular manner in which Nick had said this last part, Sam was not entirely blind. He was reasonably certain that Nick's regard for Lirael was returned in kind, and he was honestly happy for the two of them. If nothing else, the recent history had highlighted just how few of bearers of the blood remained, and the pressure Sam felt on all of them to create more, as quickly as possible, was huge and impossible. Still, Nick didn't need to know that. He was useless enough around women when they had been at school, let alone one that he actually had genuine affection for.

A deep sigh, then.

"Alright," he said, and smiled at the way Nick's face lit up. "Alight, Sayre, you win."

"Really?" Nick said. "That was suspiciously easy."

For what felt like the first time in days, Sam laughed. "Well, what sort of terrible friend and nephew am I," he said, "if I don't assist in every possible manner in your _wooing_ of my beloved aunt?"

Nick looked immediately affronted. "I am not _wooing_ -"

"Please," said Sam, throwing an arm around Nick's shoulders, "I'm your best friend. I was there when you were trying to get Ethel Maurice to pay enough attention to you that you could ask her to the spring dance, remember? I know what your wooing face looks like."


End file.
